


Screaming in the Dark

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Flashbacks, Harry is a typical older sister, Human!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is a Good Boyfriend, M/M, Sherlock doesn’t know John’s a werewolf, Sherlock is oblivious, Slight Sherlock whump, Toddler!John, Werewolves, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: Somewhere during the chase, Sherlock lost John.—Sherlock gets himself into a sticky situation, and is sure he’s hallucinating when a wolf comes to his aid. In the middle of London.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 202
Collections: To remember and cherish





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [V_briars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_briars/gifts), [lostWithoutblogger](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lostWithoutblogger).



> Hiya! I hope you’re keeping safe! 
> 
> This fic is based off a loose handful of prompts involving werewolf John and human Sherlock. 
> 
> The first chapter involves some potentially brutal Sherlock whump, but the second is more fluff and will be uploaded tomorrow. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x
> 
> P.S. the title is stolen directly from Howl by Florence and the Machine, which is a bloody fantastic song :)

The problem with London was that there was always _something_. What that something was always depended entirely upon what Sherlock needed _least_. He realised that his current case (a standard 6) had found its something when he rounded the corner of an alleyway in Aldgate and collided head first with seven rather large, (and Sherlock couldn’t pretend otherwise), scary looking men.

He had been stupid not to see it, he thought, as the men turned around to face him. Sherlock ricocheted off one of their muscular backs and landed squarely on his arse in the damp alleyway, his hands doing what they could to cushion the fall. He realised his mistake when a sharp slice tore through his hand. He’d smacked his hand directly onto a shard of glass, and hissed in pain.

He didn’t dare look at the cut until he was successfully out of the situation.

He couldn’t show any weakness. Not now. Not during an ambush.

He’d only been chasing one man. And John was supposed to be right behind him.

It was only as he looked up into the leering men’s faces did Sherlock realise that he’d lost John somewhere along the way. The turned slightly, trying to see the main road but it was so dark and the shadows so long that he could barely spot the difference between a car and a person. He squinted.

John would have his gun, and Sherlock would be okay. Because he was always, relatively fine whenever John was around.

One of the men laughed. He had a pinched voice, entirely too nasal, with a protruding bottom lip and a large scar across his cheek. The other men turned, and Sherlock frowned as his brain exploded into a deductive frenzy.

_Brothers. Mob mentality. No, pack mentality. Hive mind. Close. Supportive of one another. Violent. Ex-prisoners. Theft. Assault. One has two daughters… another beats his wife. Power complexes. Dangerous. Four are murderers. 13 deaths between them. Nothing more cunning than brutal force. Definitely dangerous. Where’s John? Is he okay?_

_Concentrate, Sherlock. You’re the one who might die in the back of an alleyway. John will find your corpse. It’ll be fine._

Sherlock stared up at the man he’d collided with, and the man grinned down at him. In what little light drifted in from the busier street Sherlock had initially been running along, Sherlock noticed that the man had several golden teeth which stuck out amongst his dazzling white ones.

_Fight_ , Sherlock informed himself. _Not dental neglect. You need to run. You lost John. He’s not coming. You need to run. Now._

The remaining six men closed in around him. One cracked his knuckles, another leered, and Sherlock hurriedly tried to scramble in between two of the men’s legs, back to the Main Street. A swift kick to the chest sent him back down into the centre of the circle.

“This him, Todd?” Asked one of the men. Sherlock looked up quickly, but couldn’t discern who had spoken. They were all so similar in appearance, save only for golden teeth and differing scars.

“That’s him,” Todd answered. He held his fist in his other hand, his biceps actually straining against his brown turtleneck. He was the man Sherlock had collided with.

“I told you coming after me would be a bad idea,” Todd said. “I warned you.”

Sherlock made to stand but was shoved down again.

“And I told you a threat only made you appear more guilty. The police have your name and your address. They’ll find you. They’re not completely stupid, though they do appear it most of the time.”

Todd’s smile was predatory.

“Tommo, Timmo, make sure we’re not disturbed,” Todd said. The two men standing at Sherlock’s 12 o’clock and 6 o’clock departed. One went to the opening of the alleyway behind Sherlock, the other, to the one in front. The other men shuffled to fill the gap. Todd, the man Sherlock had initially been chasing, now stood directly in front of him.

“You’ll regret this,” Sherlock said, pushing himself up onto his feet. He was shaking. He fought to keep his voice level. “You will.”

“One against five?” Todd laughed. “I’m not worried about you. Tucker, Tony, if you’d do the honours.”

Two men grabbed Sherlock by the arms and forced Sherlock back. Sherlock thrashed around, trying to free his arms as he kicked out wildly. Both men were far stronger than Sherlock could ever hope to be, and while Sherlock was an excellent fighter, he knew that in a situation where he was restricted he was essentially powerless.

Todd’s fist collided with Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock groaned and fell forwards. He remained upright only because of the two men holding him in place. Todd’s fist collided with Sherlock’s jaw.

The punches rained down on Sherlock and Sherlock was powerless to stop them. Pain erupted in his stomach, his chest, his head, his gut. He knew he was bleeding, but he wasn’t sure where from, and he could feel the tendrils of unconsciousness beginning to pull him asunder.

He wanted it to end. He needed it to end.

“Oi!”

Tucker and Tony dropped Sherlock and Sherlock collapsed. He curled into a ball, protecting his face and stomach from the onslaught.

He could feel nothing but pain. He wished they’d just knock him out, get it over and done with, but as he screamed in pain the kicks died away.

Warmth flooded him.

He knew that something was happened, but he daren’t look. He heard a roar. No, surely not. A car engine. A motorbike. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He was delirious. He ached.

A second roar sounded and Sherlock couldn’t think of an explanation. That was a definite roar.

He bit his lip. It was a struggle to not drift into the realms of unconsciousness as the men who had been beating him up two seconds earlier scrambled around one another, yelling instructions and shouting words Sherlock couldn’t make out.

Suddenly, his face felt scratchy. There was a weight pressing down on him, shielding him from the men. Something snarled and whatever was protecting Sherlock vibrated as another snarl sliced the air.

Sherlock lifted his arm slightly, his finger tips brushed against thick, spiky fur.

_Yes_ , he thought to himself, _you’re definitely hallucinating now_.

Something slammed down next to Sherlock’s face and Sherlock opened his eyes. He stared in bewilderment at a large paw.

A gigantic paw.

The most enormous paw he’d ever seen.

There were no wolves in London; there weren’t any wolves in England, even. His brain went into overdrive, trying to determine whether he’d started hallucinating, whether he was dreaming, or whether it wasn’t a paw at all and was instead something completely different.

“What the fuck?” A man yelled.

“Tommo, come on!”

“It’s Todd, he’s bleeding out! The mutt! It bit him!”

Sherlock’s fingers curled into the fur and he closed his eyes. It was warm. So, so, warm.

He clung on for dear life, his palm bleeding freely into the fur as the unconsciousness enveloped him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. This fic is now three chapters instead of two because chapter 2 was becoming a smidge too long. Chapter three will be up on Thursday :) 
> 
> Please do your best to stay safe! If you’ve been told to social distance, social distance! Don’t shout at retail workers!
> 
> Full disclosure I wrote this instead of doing an online lecture so yano. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

Someone was rubbing sandpaper against his face. Sherlock tried to shove it away but he was so weak he could barely move his arm. He grunted, and the sandpaper stopped.

He sighed quietly as memories of what had happened drifted to the edges of his mind like a corpse in a lake, washed up amongst the reeds and almost invisible to everyone except unsuspecting dog walker, for who it was the most startling part of their day. Sherlock’s stomach churned.

_But this wasn’t murder_ , he thought to himself, _you’re not a corpse in a lake. This was assault. And something made them stop._

Sherlock made a feeble attempt to open his eyes, but they seemed welded shut and as Sherlock tried to push himself onto all fours, something large and heavy fell upon his back and pushed him back down to the bed.

Sherlock grunted. He needed to get up, to see what the damage was, to find John.

_John._

Where had John gone? Was he okay? With a jolt Sherlock remembered being crushed, the distant shouts of “It bit him!” And “Run for at lads!” But in his confused state Sherlock struggled to put two and two together.

But where was John?

Sherlock sat bolt upright. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he didn’t care. He needed to find John.

Something soft and thick collided with Sherlock’s face as the bed dipped awkwardly around him. Sherlock grabbed onto the headboard, his eyes still shut, as he felt as the duvet be dragged up his legs.

_What the hell?_

It was the strangest, most unnerving feeling, being tucked into bed without knowing exactly who was trying to give comfort. The hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck prickled, and through the effort of hauling himself up, the fact that his whole body felt like it was being crushed, and the fear which flooded him, Sherlock began shivering.

His eyes still wouldn’t open.

“John?” He tried, his voice hoarse. But no response came.

“Who‘s there?” Sherlock tried again, his knuckles turning white. He knew he was back at Baker Street, that much was obvious.

He heard a huff, and something wet was pressed against his forehead. Sherlock yelled and jerked away.

“Identify yourself!” He shouted, clinging onto the headboard for dear life as whatever it was huffed once more. “I’m warning you! I have a very strong boyfriend and when he comes back you’ll regret ever coming into my flat!”

_But how did I get back to the flat?_ Sherlock wondered to himself, just as whatever it was poked the base of Sherlock’s neck with something wet and cold. Sherlock’s breath hitched. The sand paper was dragged against his face once more.

Sherlock scrunched his face up. The only information his brain could supply was that it felt exactly like when he was a child and Redbeard would lick his face. _But that’s ridiculous. There’s no dog in Baker Street. Must ask John about rectifying that. Take a chance. Breathe. If you’re hallucinating it can’t hurt you._

Cautiously, Sherlock reached a hand out and his fingertips brushed against fur. Sherlock stilled.

It was thick fur, almost like that of a wolf, and Sherlock frowned as he curled his fingers around a great clump of it.

“What are you?” He whispered. He brought his hand up, still following the fur, until it gave way to shorter, coarser hair.

Sherlock frowned, his heart hammering as he investigated the strange creature. His hand stopped as it reached a sharp incline, and Sherlock paused. He had an idea.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, but offered a small scratch just behind the incline.

A soft thumping sounded almost immediately and Sherlock grinned.

“Is that nice?” He asked, as a great furry head was pushed against his hand. “Is that good?” Sherlock chuckled and the beast moved forwards, and suddenly Sherlock realised that the sandpaper he’d felt was actually a tongue. It scratched his face again, and Sherlock chuckled. The thumping was a tail against the duvet.

“This is okay,” he said, “because I know that the moment I open my eyes you’ll be gone and this will all be a bad dream. Or, you’ll be real, and I’ll be hallucinating in some alley somewhere, where my corpse will be found by someone taking out the bins.”

Slowly, cautiously, Sherlock let go of the headboard with his other hand and rubbed his eyes, pushing away all the sleep that had welded his eyelids closed during the night. He opened his eyes.

Sherlock screamed.

The wolf barked, wagging his tail.

Sherlock grabbed the headboard again, turning his face against it and shaking all over.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

There was an actual _wolf_ , sitting on _his_ bed.

An actual, enormous, live bloody wolf with teeth and everything.

The wolf huffed and began nuzzling the bottom portion of the duvet. Sherlock tensed.

He decided in that moment that he must apologise to John more profusely for locking him in that lab in Baskerville. Being in a confined space with a massive hound was possibly the scariest thing to ever happen to him, and he’d been beaten to a pulp a few hours earlier.

“If you’re not a threat,” Sherlock called, “get off the bed and lie down by the wardrobe, facing away from me.”

There came another huff, but the mattress sprung back as the heavy wolf jumped off the bed. Sherlock allowed the wolf a moment before he opened his eyes.

There was indeed a wolf lying on the floor next to his wardrobe. A great, massive, beautiful wolf. One of its ears was down, but the other remained up, listening to Sherlock. A thick and fluffy tail swished back and forth on the floor, and Sherlock stared at it in utter bewilderment.

Slowly, Sherlock made to stand up but the wolf was back on him in an instant. Sherlock screamed again, but it died as the wolf prodded Sherlock’s stomach with his nose.

The wolf sat down next to the bed and Sherlock watched in part total fear, part amazement, as it carefully bit Sherlock’s trouser leg and tugged it up his calf. His leg was bright purple, and it was only when the wolf showed it to him that Sherlock realised it was definitely broken. He was surprised he hadn’t realised how much it hurt before.

_That’s because you’re not really awake_ , Sherlock told himself. _You have a great wolf in the flat. None of this is real. There aren’t any wolves in the UK. They were hunted to extinction nearly 400 years ago. This definitely isn’t real._

The wolf looked up at Sherlock, tilted his head to the side, and then trotted from the room. Sherlock stared after it, then quickly checked the rest of his body for anymore serious injuries. A broken leg was one thing.

_How the hell did you get up the stairs?_

Sherlock stopped dead when he heard a crash, then a bang, and then a loud thud from the kitchen. The wolf growled at something, then trotted back in, holding a box of paracetamol in his mouth. It dropped the paracetamol into Sherlock’s lap, then sat down and watched him, it’s tail thumping on the ground again.

Sherlock chuckled. He dry swallowed two paracetamol. The wolf barked his appreciation.

“And I suppose it was you who lay on top of me and attacked those men?” Sherlock asked.

The wolf barked and began wagging its tail harder. Sherlock grinned in spite of the situation.

“Well, thank you,” he said, and the wolf climbed up onto the bed again, careful not to place a paw on Sherlock’s severely bruised body.

Sherlock settled back down, and for some reason he wasn’t at all surprised when the wolf curled up next to him. Sherlock shuffled a bit and rested his head on the wolf’s thick pelt.

“This is ridiculous,” he mumbled, watching the wolf as it bit the duvet and dragged it up over Sherlock’s legs again.

The wolf then turned to Sherlock and licked his face. Sherlock chuckled.

“I’m not even sure you are a wolf,” he said, scratching the wolf’s ear again. “Maybe you’re just a big dog.”

The wolf licked Sherlock’s face again.

“I wish John were here,” he sighed, scratching absent-mindedly behind the wolf’s ear.

The wolf’s ears dropped.

“What, don’t you like John?” Sherlock asked.

The wolf sprang off the bed and Sherlock sat up, watching him curiously.

“What is it?” He asked.

The wolf crossed to the wardrobe and pawed at it until it opened. He then stuck his whole face in the wardrobe and began rummaging around.

“Hey, don’t go in there,” Sherlock said, frowning as the wolf turned around with John’s favourite cable-knit jumper in its mouth. “Put that down, it belongs to John.”

The wolf jumped back onto the bed and deposited it on Sherlock’s lap, using his snout to nudge it closer to him. Sherlock picked it up.

“Thanks…?” He said uncertainly, and the wolf licked his hand.

The wolf climbed back onto the bed and settled down. His whole body enveloped Sherlock and Sherlock found himself nestled in amongst the fur, completely safe as the wolf’s tail thumped gently on the bed.

Sleep washed over Sherlock in small waves, dragging him under for a brief period before the swash woke him up again. Though-out the night he checked on the wolf, which remained sound asleep for the most of the night.

He couldn’t get a tiny, nagging sensation out of the back of his head. The harder and longer he thought about, the more ridiculous his theories became.

By far the most ludicrous of ideas was that John was the wolf, but that was completely absurd. Werewolves weren’t real, and if John was one Sherlock would definitely know about it.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

But that was ridiculous.

John was not a wolf.

_But a werewolf…?_

Sherlock shook himself mentally, putting thoughts of John’s apparent anthropomorphism to the side, ready to think about a bit later on when he was less tired and less injured.

It wasn’t until Sherlock woke again at 5am to a completely silent flat did he realised that his assumptions may not have been entirely stupid.

The tail was no longer thumping, and he was no longer wrapped in a blanket of fur.

Sherlock frowned and reached over, feeling for the wolf. Instead, his hand fell upon a very hairy human chest. Sherlock stilled.

John had a hairy chest, but it wasn’t _that_ hairy.

Sherlock chewed his lip.

“John?” He whispered.

John huffed in his sleep.

Sherlock froze.

“John?” He tried again. “John.”

John yawned, and Sherlock watched in horror as the thick hair began to fall out in his hands. Clump after clump of thick wolf fur simply bunched up in Sherlock’s hands.

“Oh my god, John,” Sherlock gasped, completely helpless to John’s malt.

Soon enough, John Watson lay sprawled across the bed, butt-naked and snoring loudly. Underneath him lay a thick blanket of fur.

Sherlock stared in horror.

John had transformed from a wolf.

The wolf was John.

John was the wolf.

All Sherlock could do was stare.

He needed to leave, now. He needed to go to hospital because this was simply too much.

Sherlock tried to lift himself out of bed but realised his mistake with a horrid jolt when he moved his leg. As yelled out in pain, John jerked awake.

“What? What is it?” John asked. He grabbed the lamp off the bedside table and held it up, ready to strike. An automatic reflex.

“It’s just my leg…” Sherlock answered, wincing as he sat up.

John nodded and set the lamp down. “Oh. I’ll get you some more painkillers.”

Sherlock stared at him.

“More?” He asked slowly. John nodded.

“Well, yeah. You really need to go to the hospital, though. I don’t have the right materials to make you a cast. It could probably do with x-ray, too. Plus we need to report the assault to Lestrade.”

Sherlock’s throat went very dry.

“You… you weren’t there,” he said quietly.

John frowned at him.

“Yes… I was,” he said, putting his hand against Sherlock’s forehead to check his temperature. “Are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped, jerking away from him. “John, there was an enormous wolf in here. It was huge. It was the biggest wolf I’ve ever seen.”

“When have you ever seen a wolf?”

“Well, last night was the first time.”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked towards the window, but the curtains were drawn.

“I thought I could play it off,” he mumbled. “But I suppose not. God. Now I owe Mycroft £5.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t say it in the first chapter, but I’m currently taking fanfic requests. These are totally free, and they’re being done in the hope of cheering people up during this chaotic pandemic.
> 
> So, if you have any requests, feel free to comment them and let me know!
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and if you’d like to leave a kudos, please do!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late. My university decided to throw a colossal wobbly and thoroughly fucked me over. Months of strikes and now the lockdown have given the uni a false sense of entitlement; bitch I'll write an essay on Hamlet even though there are 10 million essays on Hamlet because that's all I feel comfortable writing about because you haven't fucking taught us anything.
> 
> Rant over.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

“Oh, well, it happened the normal way,” John said, pouring boiling water into a mug. 

They had moved to the kitchen. It was the only safe ground, the summit after Sherlock had unleashed an almighty hell-storm on John.

“Mycroft knew?! How many of you are there? You and Mycroft had a bet? At my expense! How did I miss this? This is unacceptable.”

The shouting had ended when John had pointed out that Sherlock frequently left him in the dark during cases, brought his attention back around to locking him in a lab in Baskerville, and then reminded him that he had actually saved Sherlock’s life the previous night.

Now, Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table, glaring absolute daggers at John while nursing a very potent hot chocolate with a shot of Bailey’s in it. 

“The normal way?” Sherlock scoffed. “None of this is normal.” He glared at the back of John’s head, not sure whether he was more annoyed at John for not telling him, or at himself for not seeing it.   
John huffed out a laugh.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “None of this is normal, but it’s not as unusual as you think. Loads of people are werewolves. It’s just not common knowledge, like how Muggles don’t know about wizards.”

Sherlock looked startled.

“Wizards are real?” He asked immediately. “What is a muggle? A muggle is someone who doesn’t know about wizards… Am I a muggle?”  
John sighed and rubbed his forehead. 

“You’ve clearly deleted Harry Potter, then,” he said, and Sherlock frowned. 

“We’re getting off topic” Sherlock said, his glare settling in again. “What happened? What is the normal way?”

John sighed and scratched the back of his head.

“I was on holiday in Scotland…”

\--  
Branches cracked and snapped above them as the wind tore through the trees. John gripped Harry’s hand, eyes focused resolutely on the ground as he splashed through streams in his little yellow wellington boots. It was dark. Very dark. Their only source of light came from the torch Harry held. She pointed it at the ground, helping John navigate the uneven forest floor. Grey clouds had rolled across the sky and blocked the moonlight long ago. John’s legs were beginning to ache.

“I’m tired,” He whined petulantly, kicking through a puddle. “Carry me, Harry.” He reached up for his older sister, but she ignored him.

“No. It’s your own fault we’re out here,” Harry snapped. “I don’t care if your legs are tired. You should hurry up and grow up.” She pressed onwards, stepping over a fallen branch. “If we ever find that bloody teddy, I’ll rip it’s head off.”

“No!” John shouted and ran after her, panicked. He grabbed her hand again. “Grandma said that next time she might not be able to fix him.”

Harry rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t that be a shame.”

“Harry!”

“I’m not going to rip his head off, alright?” Harry sighed. He reached down and took John’s hand again. “Come on.”

Harry leapt over a small brook and turned back to John, who was watching the brown water uneasily. For Harry with her longer, grown-up legs the width of the brook was barely a problem but for John, who was already deathly frightened of the dark forest and the thought of never seeing his beloved teddy again, the brook was a raging river with a roaring current which threatened to drag him under. He shook his head.

“It’s too wide,” he said, taking a step backwards. “I’ll die.”

Harry rolled her eyes. “You won’t die. Just jump, I’ll catch you. Or better yet just step over it. It’s not that deep, and you could do with a bath.”

“I’ll die,” John repeated, taking another step backward. “I don’t want to die. I want my teddy and I want mummy and I don’t want to die.”

Harry leapt back over the brook and took John’s hand. John screamed at her, but in one swift motion Harry had scooped him up and was hugging him tightly, holding him close.

“You’re not going to die,” Harry sighed, as John gripped onto her, his arms barely long enough to hug her properly but the intention was there. Harry rocked him gently. “I’m here to look after you, okay? Otherwise I’d have sent you out alone and locked the door behind you.”

John sniffed. “I don’t like it,” he said, voice muffled by Harry’s shoulder. “I want to go home.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll go home,” she said, and kissed John’s temple. However, as she lifted her head, she caught sight of something, moving about a thicket of trees just beyond the brook. It was barely visible, just a dark mass weaving its way through the tree trunks towards them. She squinted at it, and it squinted back. “Let’s go home,” she whispered to John, kissing his temple and hugging him a little bit tighter. “I don’t like it either.”

She paused to take one last look at the mass of black, to determine whether there was something there or whether it was her tired imagination playing tricks on her in the dark forest, but the mass had vanished. Harry sighed quietly and turned, with John in her arms, to begin the long walk back to the house and the safety of their parents. 

As she turned, however, the air of the forest was suddenly split in two by a blood-curdling scream. 

Harry jumped a mile as John, now facing the brook, shouted and gestured wildly at something, something huge, hurtling towards them from behind. 

Harry began sprinting, holding John close as he ran back through the forest as whatever it was that had caused John to scream charged after them, its feet hitting the forest floor like drums. 

Panic surged through Harry as John continued to shout.

“It’s there! Harry! Run! Harry!”

“I am bloody running!” Harry shouted back, the taste of iron filling her mouth as she ran as fast as she could, jumping over a-

The loose root of a tree snaked its way around Harry’s ankle and Harry tripped, falling to the ground with an almighty thud. She held John close, trapping him under her body as John whimpered quietly, trying to get another look at what had followed them. 

“Harry,” he whispered. “Harry.” He tapped her cheek.

Harry shook her head.

“You have to stay still,” she whispered, “perfectly still. If you move it will see you.”

“No, Harry,” John whispered, wriggling free from under Harry. “It’s teddy.”

Harry made to grab him, to pull him back, but John was free and was facing an enormous black wolf. It sat several metres away from them, it’s tail gently thumping the floor. It’s ears were down, and in it’s mouth it held John’s beloved teddy.

“John!” Harry gasped, making to grab John again from her position of the ground but John was out of reach, making his way over the wolf with surprising calm.  
“Can I have my teddy, please?” He asked.

The wolf placed it down carefully, then stood and took a step backwards, tail still wagging as John crouched to pick up the teddy.

Behind him, Harry was getting to her feet again, knees blackened by the wet mud. She watched in horror as the wolf took a step towards John.

“John, get back,” she whispered urgently. John either chose to ignore her or simply didn’t hear her. “John, please. Get back.”

John hugged the teddy tight to his chest, watching as the wolf approached him. He smiled at it.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to pat the wolf’s head.

And then, he collapsed.

\--

Sherlock frowned.

“I don’t understand.”

He had sat silently through the whole of John’s story, listening with bated breath. He had, however, thoroughly enjoyed the image of toddler John dragging Harry into the forest to look for his lost teddy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before,” John chuckled, sipping his tea.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I mean, you just collapsed?”

John nodded, setting his mug down. He leaned against the kitchen counter.

“Something to do with energy transference,” John said, “I studied it, briefly, at University but there’s not much research done on the subject and with well over half of the population not knowing anything about werewolves, there isn’t really room for much research.”

Sherlock scrunched his face up and rubbed eyes. “But, you weren’t bitten and you just became a werewolf?” He asked, and John laughed.

“No,” he said, grinning at Sherlock. “That rumour started when people who weren’t werewolves started worrying that werewolves were evil,” he explained, “something about not wanting to lose control. They didn’t want to upset the apple cart, if you will. If you get bitten by a werewolf you’ll die, depending on the blood loss.”

“But then how…?”

“Werewolves aren’t bad people, Sherlock,” John sighed. “We retain our humanity even in wolf form. No, a person becomes a werewolf after encountering a good deed by one. So, the werewolf returned my teddy to me. The moment I thanked him, that goodwill energy transferred over to me. As I said,” he continued, seeing Sherlock’s perplexed face, “no one is sure of the science behind it, but then shifting into another animal is strange. Werewolves aren’t evil. We’ve just been given a bad rep by the media. As everything else does.”

Sherlock sighed and rested his chin on his fist, frowning at John.

“So, you saved my life,” he said slowly, “will I be a werewolf?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. You fainted, but I’m not sure whether that was because you were severely injured or because of the good deed –“

“But you’ve saved my life before,” Sherlock interrupted. “Countless times. Numerous times.”

“But never in wolf form,” John replied. “The first time was tonight.”

Sherlock nodded and looked down at his hot chocolate, thinking. 

John watched him thoughtfully.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said after a few moments, crouching down next to Sherlock. “I understand that. I was young when I found out, so it didn’t make an enormous amount of difference to me, but for the adult it can be quite disturbing to realise that the myths and legends were partially true.”

Sherlock looked down at him.

“Are there others?” He asked. “Other creatures – I mean, people? If werewolves are real then surely there must be other people who aren’t werewolves but are something else.”

John chuckled and nodded. “Oh yeah. Why do you think Mrs Hudson has so much ketchup in the fridge?” He asked, standing up again and patting Sherlock’s shoulder. “If you were to taste some, I think you’d find that it’s a bit more, er, metallic than ketchup ought to be. Drink your hot chocolate and I’ll take you to hospital.”

John walked away, but Sherlock’s eyes were wide.

“Mrs Hudson!” He yelled. 

From the other room, John laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff next chapter! I promise!
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. If you enjoyed it, please feel free to leave a kudos/comment. It means a lot :)
> 
> Thank you again!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x


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